Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (17 page)

“Nay.”
Farran’s flat objection reverberated off the walls.

“Nay?” Mikhail and Noelle echoed in unison.

“I will not have her on the field until Chloe has mastered her own gifts. Too much risk lays in the fact Azazel’s demons could capture her. Or worse, one of our fallen brothers.”

Scolding her husband with a scowl, Noelle protested beneath her breath, “I’ll be fine.”

To her surprise, Mikhail dismissed the entire subject with a wave of his hand. “’Tis no matter, you have other tasks to accomplish before she will see her first battlefield.”

“Other tasks?” Noelle squeaked.
Experience told her, Mikhail’s
other tasks
came with massive expectations and innumerable danger. The last time he’d assigned them to something together, she’d nearly died, and a cathedral had been blown to bits. Phanuel was still lost somewhere in Azazel’s realm.

“Aye, you have two days to perfect your gift.
On the evening of the second, you will meet Chloe and Lucan in Bagheria, Sicily.”

Sicily
? Noelle squinted at Mikhail.

Farran
beat her to the question. A legitimate scowl firmly in place, he asked, “Caradoc and Tane possess the backing of the entire European temple, should they need aid. What duty awaits us in Sicily?”

“I can tell you no more.
In truth, I know not.” He picked up a folded sheaf of parchment that bore an elegant, sprawling script. “The message came to me this morn.”

Noelle recognized
the handwriting as Gabriel’s in an instant. She snatched it from Mikhail’s hands and quickly scanned the words.

Send all three seraphs and their knights to
Bagheria. They shall be required on March 21
^st
.

She passed it absently to Farran.
“March 21
^st
? And why aren’t Merrick and Anne going, if Gabriel sent for all three of us?”

Mikhail’s jaw tightened into chiseled stone.
He pushed out of his chair, clasped his hands at the small of his back, and wandered to the kite shield emblazoned with the Order’s sigil that hung on his wall. “It seems Merrick refuses to listen to Orders presently.”

Merrick
refuse orders? Noelle’s eyes widened. The only time Merrick ever turned his back on the archangels’ demands was when Anne was involved. If it weren’t for his status as commander, and the fact he was the strongest of all the knights, Noelle suspected Mikhail would have issued an order for his confinement. Templar arrest, more or less.

“Why does he have the ability to refuse when the rest of us do not?” Farran challenged.

Slowly, Mikhail turned. Where anger had clouded his features moments before, happiness radiated in his aquiline features. “You do not know?”

“Know what?” Noelle asked with a measure of suspicion.
She’d spoken to Anne just this morning after breakfast.

“I suppose you would not, as
Merrick has not seen fit to tell myself either. He fails to remember it is my duty to recognize innocent souls.”

Farran crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture Noelle recognized as faltering patience.
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and stepped closer to his side, offering what little reassurance she could.

“
Merrick is to be a father.”

A bomb couldn’t have produced a more deafening explosion.
Farran stiffened like someone had shoved a sword in his side. Noelle’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened to twice their normal size.

Farran broke the silence with a thunderous, “
What?
”

“You heard me correctly,” Mikhail answered as casually as if he’d said nothing more than a recitation of the evening menu.
“You must say naught of this until Merrick delivers the news himself.”

With a slow shake of his head, Farran’s voice lowered by several decibels.
He spoke, more to himself than to either Noelle or Mikhail. “’Tis impossible. The curse forbade us.”

“Nay, Farran.”
Rounding in front of them, Mikhail perched on the corner of his desk. “You were told centuries ago you could not sire a mortal child.” He pointed to Noelle. “She may have children with but one man, and a child born of seraphs is indeed immortal.”

Understanding hit Noelle at the same time it pummeled into Farran.
She looked up to find his tremulous gaze on her. Wonder, disbelief, and fear shimmered in those soft brown depths. Before the moisture that gathered in the corners of his eyes could slide down his face, she slid her hand into his and pulled him out of Mikhail’s office.

In the hall, he sagged against the wall, his whisper so soft she had to strain to hear him.
“A son.” He swiped a hand through his long blonde hair.

Aware his emotion came from the child he had lost, she chewed on her lower lip, uncertain what to say.

In the next instant, Farran hauled her against his chest, his kiss ferocious.

Chapter
16

“Help me!”

The child’s scream ricocheted through the darkness, standing Isabelle’s nerves on end.
She took a tentative step forward and peered around a time-weathered statue of an angel with a broken wing, to look into the shadowy grove ahead. Pitch black, eerie stillness stared her in the face.

Behind her, footsteps tromped across the uneven pavestones.
Shouts broke out, muffled voices she couldn’t decipher through the dense surrounding overgrowth. They’d catch up to her soon. Stop her from saving the child.

Shoving off a rough tree trunk, she ran blindly forward, stumbling over the broken bits of stone and clumps of grass that had once been a well-groomed path.
Panic drove her onward, the child’s fear, her own. She followed a faint orangish halo, a light that had no source but marked the way.

The path curved around a massive stone mausoleum barred shut by a rusting, cast iron gate.
She used the smooth wall to support herself and climbed over a fallen tree limb. Her fingertips grazed engraved lettering. Isabelle glanced at the stone slab long enough to make out the name,
Valguarnera
. Dimly, her brain registered Italian origin.

A strange, snarling sound drifted from behind the
creepy monument. Isabelle slowed her pace, inched around the corner. Her gaze settled on a ghostly statue, another angel, judging by the massive wings. But where the other had possessed a face carved with grace, a cloak shrouded this one’s face. Nothing but an empty dark hole looked down on a crumpled child, still dressed in her nightgown, at the base of its feet. Long blonde hair tumbled in bloody clumps away from a face Isabelle knew by heart.

She’d given birth to it.
Picked out the tank-style nightgown edged with big fat strawberries for September’s second birthday. It was too short now, coming to her knees, no longer her ankles, but September refused to part with it.

As a scream rose to the back of Isabelle’s throat, the snarling began again.
Unwilling to look, but unable to stop, she let her gaze travel up the haunting statue’s robes, following the wet crimson trail of blood that ran in rivulets through the stone folds of cloth. It pooled on smooth shoulders, dripping from somewhere above.

She looked higher.
To a shadow crouching behind the statue.

Blood orange eyes glowed above the angel’s wi
ngs. Human. And yet…nowhere near human. It held on to both stone wingtips with razor-sharp claws where feet should have been. Hands, as large as a man’s, yet tipped with the same dagger-like nails rested on bent knees. Yellowed fangs snapped before the thing emitted that terrible noise.

Isabelle screamed.

She bolted upright, knocking a full plate of pasta off her lap and onto the floor. Panting, she clutched a hand at her throat and glanced around her room, not the decrepit garden she’d been in moments before. Slowly, the terror let go of her muscles enough she could lower her arm and drag in a deep breath. She glanced down at the spilled tomato-base sauce, and her stomach churned.

In a mad dash, she bolted for the bathroom
and hit her knees just in time. The few bites she’d choked down before she’d unwillingly drifted made a violent reappearance. Seconds later, though her stomach heaved, nothing but bitter green bile came up. She laid her cheek on the cool porcelain and waited for the trembling to subside.

Seconds
crept by, pronounced by the ticking of the clock on the wall. She stared at the time, unable to drag herself completely out of the nightmare. September dead. God, it couldn’t be possible. And that
thing
… A shudder rolled through her shoulders. No, it couldn’t be possible. Nothing like that existed outside of horror flicks.

With the last of her faltering energy,
Isabelle pushed herself into a sitting position and leaned her back against the bathtub. A sigh possessed her. In ten minutes, she was supposed to meet Caradoc. She probably looked like hell. She definitely felt like hell. What had possessed her to think she could tell him anything?

She pushed a shaky hand through her long hair and sighed.
Suddenly, the idea of telling him she was suffering from insomnia because of a nightmare felt childish. Let alone the fact that letting him in at all would make resisting everything else about him almost impossible. Maybe she shouldn’t go. He thought she was ill; she could always claim she’d fallen asleep. It wouldn’t be a complete lie.

Guided by strength other than her own, she made it to her feet and turned on the faucet.
After swishing her mouth out, she splashed water over her face and grabbed for the towel. As she dried, she glanced in the mirror. Hollow cheekbones beneath pockets of dark kohl stared back at her.

No probably about it, she looked like she already had one foot in the grave.
She could try and tell herself the weakness in her legs came from just puking up her guts, but she knew she’d lost weight over the last few weeks of the nightmare. If she didn’t find a way out of this madness, she’d end up in the hospital, a forced vacation she couldn’t afford until that necklace was in Paul’s hands. She needed sleep, and there was only one way she knew to accomplish it.

Caradoc.

Groaning, she picked up her toothbrush.

* * *

Unable to sit and wait, Caradoc paced across his suite’s front room. Ten after seven, and Isabelle, who was always on time, was late. Saints’ toes, after this afternoon, if she did not appear in another ten minutes he would chase her down.

He
tugged at the cuffs on his long-sleeved jersey and pulled at the collar. Despite its comfortable fit, his jangled nerves made his very skin feel too tight. Mayhap he should have ordered a bottle of wine. He did not generally drink, but at the moment, he would have welcomed a glass. Mayhap two.

On second thought, a bottle of wine might imply more than Isabelle intended.
Damnation! If she had only made her meaning more clear. A word or two more on the scribbled note would have served well.

The light rap at his door froze him in place.
His heart lodged in his throat, and for a moment, he struggled to breathe. She had not changed her mind. She was here. Saints above.

Swallowing
hard, he went to the door and opened it wide.

She looked up with a wavering smile that did naught to improve the
dark circles beneath her eyes. “Hi.”

The shy quality of her voice unwound his bunched up nerves, and Caradoc’s heart sank into its rightful place behind his ribs.
“Good eve.” Stepping aside, he resisted the overwhelming urge to pull her into a hug and welcome her with a kiss. ’Twas how they had always greeted one another. This lack of affection seemed unnatural. Awkward.

She passed him by, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle in her wake.
As he shut the door and quietly turned the lock, he watched the way she slid her purse off her shoulder, set it on the armchair, and curiously looked around.

“This is nice.”
She pointed through the door to his bedroom. “You have a balcony?”

“Aye.
I had hoped to find the weather more agreeable to sleeping with a bit of fresh air. You know how I enjoy it.”

Wrong thing to say.
She ducked her head and looked away as she lifted a hand to gnaw on her fingernail. A habit she employed when she was not at ease. He hurried to take her mind off the reference. “You had good luck at the auction today, did you not?” Gesturing at the more comfortable sofa, he urged, “Please sit down.”

As if her legs had lost the ability to support her any longer, she dropped onto the couch, then folded her arms beneath her breasts
and hunched into her body. “I really don’t mean to bother you. I shouldn’t be here. I can’t just dump my problems on you.”

Propelled by the instinctive urge to protect her from whatever plagued her, Caradoc sat beside her on the couch and cupped her dainty chin in his palm.
Lifting her head, he brought her gaze level with his. “Isabelle, you are no bother.”

Thick
strawberry eyelashes lowered. She twisted her head in attempt to look away.

“Nay, sweet Isa.
Look at me.” He turned her face back to his. Waited for her to open her eyes. When she did, a fine sheen of moisture clouded indigo depths capable of drowning a man. In that moment, Caradoc could no more control the urge to kiss her than he could cease the beating of his heart. Still holding her chin in his hand, he leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers.

Her lips fluttered beneath his.
The taste of mint lingered in her soft response. It made his hunger for her intolerable.

With a hoarse groan, he slid his hand down the side of her neck and nudged her lips apart.
Isabelle responded in a heartbeat. The tip of her tongue touched his, igniting a desire more frightening than a dozen of Azazel’s creations. Her hand latched onto the hair at the back of his neck, and she lifted up into his body. He wound his free arm around her waist, holding her close, deepening the kiss. Saints above, in all the time they had spent together, he could not recall such fierce need of her, nor could he recall such demands in her kiss.

Demands that commanded he give everything he was, or forsake her forever.

He gave.

He poured every bit of his soul into the stroke of his tongue, the catch of his lips, willing her to hear the words she had not allowed him to speak, the apologies she refused to believe.
His hand slid from her throat to her shoulder, then to her back, between her shoulder blades. Fingers splayed over the delicate wool of her cashmere sweater, he pressed her forward, bringing her breasts flush against his chest. The feel of her soft flesh sent his senses spinning haphazardly. She was here, everywhere. Surrounding him, carrying him away to a place he had known only in fantasy.

His breath hardened to match the sharpness of hers.
Against his thigh, his shaft filled so full it became a physical ache. He shifted to relieve the tightness of his jeans, and Isabelle’s other hand settled at his waist. Caradoc barely registered the movement of his shirt until her warm fingertips skated over the skin beneath his ribs.

Saints’
blood, he had been a madman to believe he could ever live without this. Without her. He needed the touch of her hands like he needed his sword. Dusting his lips across her cheek, he sought the sweet spot at the base of her ear. She tipped her head back, allowing him the freedom to trace the tip of his tongue over the fragile skin there. Her nails bit into the nape of his neck, and her quiet moan filled his ears. Caught up in the magic of Isabelle, he trailed kisses down the length of the thick vein that pulsed at the side of her neck, feathered his mouth across her prominent collarbone.

When he dipped his tongue into the deep v of her sweater, however, Isabelle jerked upright.
Her hands fell to his shoulders, gave him an insistent push. “I can’t,” she protested, her whisper ragged.

Pulling in short quick breaths through his nose, Caradoc slowly lifted his head.
His hands trembled as he released her. “Aye,” he accepted reluctantly. “I apologize. I did not intend to lose my head.”